


all the ways to mend

by viridae



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, andrew minyard deserves happiness, coffee versus tea debate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viridae/pseuds/viridae
Summary: Andrew Minyard is living a quiet, stress-free life as the owner of a small town coffee shop. That is, until newcomer Neil Josten moves into town and opens up a cafe directly across from his.
Relationships: Kevin Day & Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so glad to finally publish this! i've been sitting on it for a while + i hope you all enjoy!

The beeping of the alarm startles him awake at four AM, when the sun outside is still down. Eyes bleary with sleep, Andrew turns over groggily to stare at the time. For a moment, he considers slamming snooze, but common sense gets the better of him. He shakes off the last vestiges of his dream and rolls out of bed. 

He can’t quite remember what exactly he dreamt about, but the feeling sticks in his brain like old gum and makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He moves across the room, turns the lights on, an anchor to the real world. There’s a familiar sofa in the corner, a stained rug that Andrew should be saving up for to replace. A few bowls in the sink that he’s been putting off on washing. This apartment is his, and his alone. 

He forces the coffee machine to give him the strongest espresso it can handle. It takes a moment for the caffeine to hit, but when it does, Andrew starts rocking forward on his toes. There’s so much to be done on a Monday morning, it’s 4:15, and he’s ready to begin. 

He takes the stairs two at a time downstairs and flicks on the lights.

The industrial silver of the kitchen sparks to life and illuminates all of the half finished projects from yesterday. Andrew can smell the sweet apricot nappage chilling in the fridge and the vanilla sugar sitting on the counter, the fresh oranges and their citrus, the jars and jars of spices on their racks, and the heady smell of raspberry jam. They open in three hours. 

Moving faultlessly, Andrew gets started.

The rhythmic motions of baking calm him down, moving on autopilot, a recipe that he doesn’t have to read. He scoops a handful of flour onto the counter and lets the feeling carry him away. 

Before long, Andrew has the first two batches of orange and cranberry scones baking, filling the kitchen with their smell, and he’s about to start on the third batch when there’s the distinct sound of a key in the front door lock. He pushes his way past the swinging door that separates the tables and the kitchen to make out Kevin Day’s too-tall figure against the door. 

“Andrew,” Kevin says, in lieu of a hello. Andrew doesn’t bother greeting him in return, and turns back to the kitchen. Kevin follows him like a stray puppy. “I’m here.”

“We open in two hours,” says Andrew tartly. “You’re late.”

“My alarm didn’t go off,” Kevin huffs. “And I wanted to check out the competition.”

Sourly, Andrew looks across to the new bakery across the street. “The competition isn’t even open yet.”

The competition opens today, though. Apparently they specialize in French pastries and tea, and the wicker tables outside are annoyingly clean. In contrast, the wooden tables outside Cafe Minyard are warped and stained with age- at the very least, they’re a mark of a quality restaurant. 

He goes back to the butter and flour and cream. Kevin follows him and pushes himself onto the counter. “They open at 7:30 and their special, for opening day, is a lemon meringue tart.”

“Boring.” Andrew says dismissively. And, a tad more irritably, “Either move or start helping.” 

Kevin doesn’t bother arguing back and ties an apron around his waist. He starts on the danishes, cracking eggs expertly into a bowl. He gets through the first dozen before he frowns down at his left hand, shakes it out, and switches to his right hand. Andrew and Kevin work in silence for a long moment, and Kevin breaks the silence only when three batches of blueberry scones, four loaves of walnut pumpkin bread, and two batches of danishes are baking. 

His tone is nonchalant. “I heard that Aaron going to be in town this summer.” 

Andrew freezes for a split second, barely noticeable, before resuming his work. Flecks of cream spot his hands from where he’s whipping it into fluff. The words bore into his head like a drill. Unfortunately, it’s news to him too. 

The last time he and Aaron were together, approximately two years ago, Aaron Minyard was planning on attending medical school in Chicago and preparing for residency. Both twins had just graduated from university, both dressed in orange caps and gowns, both holding precious won diplomas. Aaron looked at Andrew, gave him a short, clipped nod, turned his back, and walked away. 

They have not spoken since.

“Why should that matter to me?” Andrew says, ignoring the ugly, sunken pit in his stomach. “We’re estranged.”

Kevin shrugs. “Useful information.”

“Who told you?” Andrew asks, and then sighs. “No, let me guess. Allison Reynolds.”

Kevin nods, wisely not saying anything else, and that’s the end of their conversation. 

Andrew is finishing up the final touches on the glass displays when his alarm rings for 7:00. He fetches his keys, flips the worn out sign to open, and unlocks the door just as the first customer steps in front of it. 

Matt Boyd arrives at seven every day, without fail, and Andrew has his usual order- latte with an extra shot of espresso, extra foam, a pump of toffee syrup, blueberry scone, and the scone of the day- laid out on the counter before him. 

“Hey, Andrew,” Matt grins appreciatively, soft as butter, and scoops the food into his arms. “How’s the morning going?”

“As usual,” Andrew answers. “Early morning. Monday. Lots of work to do.” 

Matt breaks off a hunk of scone, and through a full mouth, manages to grunt out, “You’ve seen the new place?” 

Andrew flicks a cynical look at Matt and sighs. This is going to be happening a lot, with everyone who enters Cafe Minyard this morning. Living in a town as small as Palmetto means that every day is a new hotbed of gossip. Any competition, no matter how small, is big news. 

Even so, Andrew doubts anything big will come of it- everyone who is anyone is a regular at his place, and he knows their orders back to front. Kevin and Andrew have five stars on Yelp, and no matter their short attitudes, anyone who comes to Palmetto is told to visit them first. 

That said, Andrew is absolutely, positively, sure that the new place across the street will cause no problems for him at all. 

“I’ve seen it.” he says blandly.

Matt watches, gauging his response, before yawning and getting back to his coffee. Andrew already knows he’s going to be asking for another scone to take on his way, and rings it up right as Matt starts to ask for it. 

“Blueberry,” Andrew says, giving him the paper bag. “To go.” 

Matt gives Andrew a twenty, and as always, tells him to keep the change. “Thanks, Minyard.”

Andrew turns around and begins making Allison’s signature order, because he knows from time after time that she’ll be strolling in next, dressed to the nines and desperate for coffee. Kevin comes out of the back, flour dusted all over his shirt, and gives Andrew a thumbs up. “First customer always goes well.”

“Get back to work,” Andrew says dismissively. He recognizes the compliment for what it is. 

Thirty minutes later, there’s been a steady stream of 9-5 workers coming in and out for their orders, which Andrew knows by heart, per an extremely useful eidetic memory. Allison Reynolds wants a plain bagel and a doppio fresh, Dan Wilds wants fresh honey granola with yoghurt and a dirty chai latte. Jeremy Knox hates the taste of coffee but desperately needs it, so he gets a mocha with vanilla milk and hazelnut syrup. When Andrew finally manages to catch a break, he cuts a thick, rich slice of walnut pumpkin bread for his breakfast and squints through the window at the new bakery outside. 

The clock has just hit 7:30, and someone is opening the blinds on Palmetto Pastries to reveal a classy soft pink and white interior. From here Andrew can just make out the perfect lines of croissants and tarts and an endless selection of jars and jars of fresh tea inside. The man unlocks the door, bends down to pick something up– which, incidentally, is quite a nice view– and flips the sign on the door to open. Andrew props an elbow up on the counter and rests his chin in his hand to watch. 

A few more people bustle in and out of Cafe Minyard and take little to no brainpower to deal with, so Andrew is more focused on the view across the street. As much as he would like to deny his jealous streak, he’s watching to see if people enter. 

Unsurprisingly, the first person to pass through the glossy, untouched door to Palmetto Pastries is Jean Moreau. He greets the man behind the counter like an old friend and leans across the counter to speak to him. The owner responds easily, flashes a smile, and grabs something under the counter for Moreau. 

Kevin comes up behind him. “Enjoying the view?”

“Shut up,” says Andrew irritably. 

Kevin snorts. “Mhm.” 

A few more people go in and out, looking curiously at the shop, probably testing whether or not it’s worth welcoming to the town. The man behind the counter smiles and nods and fetches things, and for all the world, looks like a polite and generous host. 

Kevin joins Andrew at the counter, smelling of raisins and walnuts and cinnamon, and pulls up a stool. “Anything interesting?” 

Andrew shakes his head. Kevin ends up heading back to the kitchen and switches the playlist from piano to a soft tune Andrew can’t quite place. Slowly, Andrew feels the dormant unease left over from the dream this morning bubble and froth in his throat. He doesn’t know the reason for it but it sets the hairs on the back of his neck on edge.

There’s silence in the cafe for a few moments, until Andrew sees a familiar woman with pastel streaked tips round the corner. He is about to lift an arm to wave to her when she detours past Cafe Minyard, her _usual_ place, where Andrew knows her order by heart, crosses the street, and enters Palmetto Pastries.

Andrew frowns in disbelief. “The fuck is Renee doing over there?” 

He watches as she picks up a tin of tea and leans over to say something to the man, who responds easily, and keeps chatting. Andrew’s jealousy threatens to surface, but he chokes it down. 

Kevin emerges from the back. “What?”

“Renee abandoned us,” Andrew says. “Look.”

Kevin reacts much more strongly that Andrew would have expected, making a sound that’s somewhere between scathing surprise and disappointment. Andrew’s back is turned to the windows, and he only clues into Kevin’s emotions when Kevin says, “Thea?” in astonishment.

Andrew scowls, and whips around to see another very familiar woman enter Palmetto Pastries, her hair plaited down her back in an intricate pattern. Kevin sighs and slumps down over the counter.

“Both Renee and Thea?” Kevin says. “This is very bad news.” And then, slightly more angry, “This is _Palmetto._ We’re locals. There’s not even supposed to _be_ competition here.”

Andrew shrugs minutely, an expert at dissolving his emotions, and turns away. “He’ll close soon.” 

Kevin raises a skeptical eyebrow at Andrew, who returns the look tenfold, hopefully scalding off some of Kevin’s ego with it. “You said it. This is Palmetto.” He shoulders Kevin out of the way to clear a path to the register. “Taking down Palmetto Pastries won’t be hard at all.” 

Andrew looks up and back across the street, and the man unerringly meets Andrew’s eyes. 

Instead of feeling threatened, packing up, moving out of town, changing his name, and fleeing the country, the man smirks, raises a cup of tea in a silent declaration of war, and turns back around. 

Fuck, Andrew thinks. This could, just possibly, become a problem.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd. one day i will learn how to consistently update.. one day.

The reviews for Palmetto Pastries are  _ hideous,  _ Andrew decides.  _ A great addition to Main Street, bringing a sense of charm and formality to the town,  _ someone writes. And there’s so many more, piling on top of themselves: _ a welcome presence in the community. Host was polite and the service was incredible.  _

And Andrew’s personal favorite:  _ Palmetto Pastries is my new favorite place!  _

The spiral down starts slowly, and then quickens before Andrew even realizes it’s happening. He still wakes up at four in the morning every day, in the same bed, in the same apartment. He still makes the same recipes and the same coffee and the same food. Still serves the same customers, the same orders, and yet everything is so frustratingly different that it sends tremors of anxiety trickling up and down his spine each morning. 

Across the street, Palmetto Pastries is flourishing. They’ve only been open for a month, but already some locals have started making it part of their daily routine. Renee, for one, stops by almost everyday. If Andrew had an ounce of kindness in his body he might even think about doing the same.

A month and a half after they first open is when Andrew finally meets the mysterious host. Palmetto Pastries closes on Sundays, so Andrew’s had the entire day to himself. He’s been busy cleaning up the back, the seating area remarkably empty for once, when the door opens. 

The bell above the glass door tinkles lightly. Inside steps a short man-- well, shorter than average, not that Andrew can reasonably call anyone short-- with auburn hair curling over his forehead. There are faint white scars lined on his cheek that aren’t noticeable from across the street, but jump out at him now that he’s closer. If Andrew was looking closely (which he absolutely wasn’t) he would see similar scars tracing over his hands and up his wrists. They look too familiar to Andrew. He reflexively grips the edge of his armbands as he makes his way to the register.

“Welcome to Cafe Minyard,” Andrew says blandly. “What would you like to order?” 

“Actually, I’d like to say hello,” the man says. “I’m Neil Josten, I own Palmetto Pastries. Across the street.” He gestures, and then holds his hand out across the counter. Andrew looks at it distastefully. 

“Is that all?” Andrew says, instead of shaking his hand. Slightly disconcerted, Neil puts his hand down. “You might be new around here, but let’s get one thing clear. It’s March now, but I guarantee by this time next year I will have run Palmetto Pastries out of business, torn it to the ground, and in its place, set up my second location. Are we clear?” 

Neil looks at him in astonishment before fighting valiantly to cover up a smile. Andrew stares back in slight shock. 

“Sorry,” Neil says finally. “I don’t mean to overstep in, ah,  _ your territory. _ ”

Usually, Andrew thinks, when he threatens people like this, they take it seriously. Neil Josten looks anything but. 

“90,” Andrew says firmly, pushing that thought away. “Going on 91.”

“What?”

“The percentage of how much I want to kill you.”

Neil smiles again, which Andrew hates, because it’s infuriating and slightly attractive. “Alright. See you around.”

And of course, now that Andrew finally knows his name, he sees Neil everywhere.

* * *

Andrew’s movements are aggressive and sloppy, and Renee signals to yield when he forces her off the mat. They’ve been sparring for the last half hour, Andrew attempting to vent some his frustration and anger onto her and Renee calmly letting him.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You’re distracted.”

Andrew frowns down at his wrapped hands. Even after years of therapy, it’s still difficult to vocalize his emotions sometimes. It takes a few moments for the words to form in his head, and another few for them to roll off his tongue.

“I’m annoyed,” he finally bites out, and she nods sympathetically. 

“Water?” Renee asks, and a few minutes later they find themselves resting at the edge of the mat. Andrew sits cross-legged and presses his thumb into the spreading bruise on his arm, relishing the way the pain grounds him to the present. It’s reddish against his pale skin, jumping out at him angrily.

“You know that he’s not a threat.” Renee says gently.

“Mm.”

“Have you tried talking with him?”

Andrew takes another sip of water. “He came in two days ago, and I told him that in a year I would tear his building to the ground.” 

“So you didn’t hit it off.” 

Andrew snorts. “You could say that.” 

The bruise on his arm has already purpled. Andrew can feel his heart beating too loud in his chest, like it wants to break right out of his ribcage. 

“What has Betsy said about it?” asks Renee. “Have you been talking with her?” 

_ Bee.  _ “I haven’t talked to her lately,” Andrew says, and tries to ignore the tightness in his chest.  _ Lately  _ is an understatement. She reaches out. Andrew doesn’t respond. 

Renee nods. “Are you going to visit Aaron?”

Andrew purposefully does not think about his brother. Idly, he wonders how long Aaron will stick around in town this time, and whether he’ll make a point of seeing Andrew before he leaves again. 

At the end of the day, he tells himself that he doesn’t really care. Andrew has cut his ties. Their deal broke after graduation. Andrew has no energy left for his brother, especially if Aaron doesn’t have the energy for him. 

“No,” Andrew says, with enough bite to his voice that Renee knows not to continue the conversation. She accepts that with a slight tilt of her head, and then stands up. 

“Another round?” 

Andrew takes her offered hand and pulls himself up. The remnants of their conversation feel like oil on his skin, slippery and tacky, and Andrew wants to go home and scrub the grime off until he’s washed clean. 

Instead, he checks the wrappings on his hands, braces his feet, and strikes out at Renee again.

* * *

“Are you coming to the housewarming party?” Kevin asks, because he doesn’t know what boundaries are. 

Andrew looks down at the mess of flour and butter in his hands, dusted over the front of his apron. He got the invite two weeks ago from a smiling Boyd’s hands, took one look at it, and stowed it away underneath the register. It’s been collecting dust.

Dan Wilds and Matt Boyd are just moving into their first house, having finally secured the down payment only five months before the wedding. It’s a sleepy, suburban, two story house underneath the shade of a massive oak tree. It’s the kind of place that’s domestic and heteronormative and everything Andrew doesn’t want. 

“Probably,” he says with a shrug, and resumes rolling the dough into something workable. The humidity in the air is all wrong today, and it’s making all of the bakes come apart at the seams. He has to pay more attention than usual to the ratios of ingredients in the dough, and he doesn’t have time to listen to Kevin talk about parties for friends Andrew doesn’t have. 

“It’s tonight,” Kevin adds.

Andrew frowns, but not at Kevin. The dough isn’t forming right. It feels like his mood lately: crumbling at the sides, too dense to make into something manageable, heavy and all consuming. He scrapes the entire batch into a garbage can and resolves himself to doing it again. 

“You’re insufferable.”

_ “You’re  _ insufferable,” Kevin retorts. And then more slyly: “Renee’s going.”

Andrew sighs. Renee always makes social gatherings more tolerable. He hates that Kevin knows him well enough to play the right cards. The mortifying ordeal of being known, and all that. 

“I’ll be there,” Andrew says wearily. He’ll go, grab a drink, maybe stay for a half hour at best. Renee and Kevin will be there, along with everyone else’s mutual friends, and even with his depleted energy at the moment, the socializing can’t be that bad. 

Andrew arrives at seven PM, right as the sun is beginning to collapse over the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of violet and orange. The door to their house is open, yellow light streaming out. There’s gentle chatter from inside, and Andrew steps in after it. 

“Andrew!” Matt steps up to him. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Congratulations on the house,” Andrew says by rote. 

“Thanks,” Matt enthuses. “How have you been?” 

Andrew’s not one for polite small talk, but he indulges Matt for a few moments. It’s clear that there’s an excitement present in Matt’s voice that's hard to hear at seven in the morning. 

“Help yourself to a drink,” Matt says, before bustling off. “I’m going to go find Dan.” 

Andrew makes his way over to the (admittedly well-stocked) liquor table and pours himself a glass of amber whiskey. It’s not his preferred brand, but it’ll do. He wants to at least have some alcohol in his body in order to cope with the social interaction for the night. 

Renee catches his eye from across the room where her arm is linked through Allison’s. Her hair is newly dyed-- this time it’s blue, pink, and purple in alternating stripes. Andrew considers crossing the room to her, but instead leans against the wall. 

He’s beginning to regret coming. His mood is draining through the cracks, slipping out of his fingers, and what he really wants is to settle back into his skin at his apartment,  _ alone.  _

“Hey,” someone says, and their voice is awfully recognizable. Andrew sighs inwardly-- of course Dan and Matt would invite the stray. 

Neil Josten has somehow managed to sidle up next to Andrew, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. He’s wearing a light blue button down, the sleeves rolled up and the top button popped. Andrew resolutely does  _ not  _ look at the swath of tanned skin in the hollow of Neil’s neck. “How’s business?”

“Booming,” Andrew says flatly. “No thanks to you, of course.” 

“Hey,” Neil says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “it’s a small town. At some point you have to share.” 

“It is a small town,” Andrew agrees. “It makes me wonder why someone would bother moving in.” 

Neil’s expression shutters. 

“Maybe someone wanted a fresh start,” he says tightly. 

Andrew takes a long sip of whiskey, feeling the burn in the back of his throat and the slow heat spreading through his body. A spike of interest blooms in the back of Andrew’s mind at Neil’s tension. 

He’s like a puzzle. A puzzle that makes Andrew want to scout through every piece until it makes sense. A complicated, fragmented puzzle in a package of reddish hair and light eyes. Andrew wants to take him apart and put him back together piece by piece. He wants to find out what makes Neil Josten  _ tick.  _

“A fresh start from what?” asks Andrew casually. Neil’s expression goes from shuttered to frigid. 

“None of your business.” His voice is tart. 

Andrew takes another sip and recalculates his first impressions of Neil Josten. “I’ll figure you out eventually.” 

Neil’s brow furrows. “I’m not a math problem.” 

“No,” Andrew agrees. “You’re a conundrum.”

Neil huffs a small laugh. “Thank you?”

“And all conundrums get solved eventually.” 

“Does that mean you won’t bankrupt my business?” He laughs, but humorlessly. 

Andrew almost allows himself a smile. “No.” 

“I see,” Josten says. “I look forward to you trying.” 

Andrew goes to take another drink and realizes his glass is empty. Neil’s quick wit is infectious, almost, if Andrew wasn’t on his guard. 

“You might turn out to be interesting after all,” says Andrew, and leaves.

He contemplates pouring himself another drink, but the alcohol has started to make his head feel woozy. It’s tipping his body off its axis, like his center of gravity has been displaced, and he decides that it’s time to leave. He dodges Kevin’s impatient gestures and Matt’s well-meaning words, past Renee’s concerned look and Neil’s calculating stare, and breaks out into the cool night air.

He gets back to his apartment, trudges right up the stairs, and looks up  _ Neil Josten.  _

His suspicion rises in the back of his throat, hooking his attention. 

There’s not much there. It almost seems like there’s nothing to find. There’s no record of him except for the past six months, and nothing before that. It’s almost as if Neil Josten didn’t exist before his move to Palmetto. 

Curiosity itches the back of his skull with her icy fingers, persistent and never-ending.

* * *

The roof of the library is one of Andrew’s reliable haunts. The town slows down at night; cars stop driving, lights flick off, and the roads darken. The roof is calm and quiet and best of all, alone.

It’s a Sunday night and Andrew knows that he’ll have to wake up early the next morning if he wants the cafe to function. But his insomnia is taking him for a run, no matter how exhausted his physical body feels. His mind feels spun in six different directions, all tugging and pushing and pulling, and he doesn’t think he could sleep even if he tried. 

He swings his legs over the edge and peers down at the ground below. 

The sidewalk is sickeningly far away. Five stories stand between him and the pavement. For a brief, hidden moment, Andrew imagines falling. 

How would it look?

How would it  _ feel? _

“Minyard?”

The voice startles Andrew out of his reverie, and he turns to see Neil Josten standing by the stairway. His sweatpants are ratty, more stain than clean, and his hair is unfairly tousled from the chilly wind. He doesn’t look as bothered by the temperature as Andrew is, huddled under a coat. 

Andrew doesn’t care if he’s there, and he doesn’t care if he leaves, so he lets Neil stay. 

The silence stretches dark and cold between them, and Andrew smokes through an entire cigarette before Neil speaks. When he does: 

“Why are you so intent on driving me out?” 

His voice is lightly amused but pulled taut. Andrew hums dismissively. 

“Why are you so intent on staying?”

“What will it take for you to answer my question?” Neil says sharply. 

Each question is dodging the one before, walking on eggshells and broken glass, and Andrew’s tired of the charade. 

“A truth,” Andrew says. “I want a truth.” 

Neil scoffs.

Andrew pulls out another cigarette and flicks the lighter on. He doesn’t miss the hungry, needy look in Neil’s eyes when the smoke drifts in his direction. Andrew takes a deep drag and relishes the feel of the smoke in his lungs. Another silence envelops them, this time slightly less tense. 

“Fine,” Neil says. He taps his fingers against his thighs. “But I want a truth back.”

“Okay, _Neil_ ,” Andrew says, making sure to place emphasis on the name. “You have a deal. A truth for a truth.” He can tell that Neil is itching to ask a question, so before he can open his mouth, Andrew cuts him off. 

“Why are you in Palmetto?” 

It’s something he’s wondered about for a while. Palmetto, South Carolina, is the kind of place people leave, not where people stay. It’s the epitome of small town America, all hidden secrets and undercover gossip, and all blank slate if you’re a newcomer. 

But once you’ve lived in Palmetto long enough, it’s suffocating. 

The only reason Andrew hasn’t left is because he has nowhere else to go. 

Neil stares down at the pavement for a long, long moment, his eyes unfocused. Andrew can almost see the wheels churning in his brain, coming up with an answer. He has the feeling that the next words out of Neil’s mouth will be a lie, and he braces himself for this next breach of trust. 

“I’m here,” Neil says slowly, the words like taffy in his mouth, stretched long, “because I’m in witness protection.” 

And instead, the words sound honest. They sound real. There’s a naked vulnerability in Neil’s voice that can’t be faked. 

“I testified against a gang,” Neil continues. “I needed to be relocated so they couldn’t find me, because if they did, I would be dead.” 

Andrew takes a deep breath in, exhales the smoke, watches the way the night swallows it up. “Aren’t people in witness protection not supposed to say that they are?” 

Too late, he realizes that he just gave Neil a truth on credit, but Neil doesn’t take it. 

“Do you really plan on making me leave?” he asks instead, subverting the question. His voice is back to the emotionless tone it was before, but there’s a fierce undercurrent of desperation, bubbling to the surface. 

Andrew’s burned the cigarette down to the butt, and he stubs it out and flicks it away. “Yes,” he says. He doesn’t watch Neil’s face, but every muscle in Neil’s body tenses. 

“Is it that hard to believe that I want to live a quiet life?” 

The words make Andrew’s chest tighten and pull, a too-tight rubber band. 

“Yes,” he says again, and ignores the way the word stabs at his stomach. “Leave me alone.” 

He stands up and his head spins, staring over the street below, before turning around and leaving Neil Josten behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed please leave kudos or comments, they truly make my day. stay safe and healthy lovelies!

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed please leave kudos or a comment or feedback of any kind! i love validation


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